I saw my future husband today in a petrol station seven miles from my house. He was filling up the 2007 Hyundai Sedan his wife is still embarrassed about. But that makes him hold on to it even more. He doesn’t know it yet, but when he comes home tonight and opens the door to the smell of that house that suffocates him, he will enter the bed with his cold toes first and try to grope his wife for affection or attention (it no longer matters which one). She will shriek much louder than she had expected to and blurt out that she no longer wants him. The toddler next door will stir in bed and ask to be taken to the bathroom. The baby in her womb releasing nausea into the air. He will then put the same sweat-filled socks back on, get dressed and head down the hallway. He’ll look back at the sitting room one last time as the man of the house. This is what his father must have looked like (he was the little toddler in the bathroom, being taught to pee like a man by his mother). Into the night he’ll stumble to the nearest bar, desperate for liquor-filled soft thighs, where I, reeking of grief and sex, will be waiting with the too-tight dress and a face painted on that says: I am exotic and for the taking. This is what my mother must have looked like – broken women feast on broken homes. This will be our love story.

*This story was first published in Public Pool



Two weeks ago he opened his mouth
Whilst leaning back to let the rain
Pound eagerly into his throat
Tasting the city, he said
Last night my soul came out of its hiding place and
Settled into his right earlobe
Love sounds just like rain, he said

The day I got married
My father crawled into the crease of my eyelid
Competing with stubborn tears for recognition
He licked the inside of my eyelids
It tasted like oodkac and canjeero
If I stop blinking
He might starve

I gave myself away today


*This poem was first published in Public Pool


I fell in love
With the space
In between his thoughts
The homes I re-built
In the gap of his pause
This man I have carried
In my mind and under
My breath, humming
His calls for revolution as often as
Calls for prayer, precise
Brown eyes blackened by the sight
Of death and dying, mourning turns
To moulding body parts rotting in the sun
Wilting like flowers plucked by its root
Children dripping in crayon blood
Learning to point to where it hurts
Before the alphabet
Young girls forced to use their sex
As grenades, throwing themselves from buildings
Instead of inviting demons
Between their legs
The stench of death lingering in earlobes
And buried deep into bellybuttons
Floating in the wombs
Of young mothers
Free-falling down
Every occupied mountain
Whose people still remind the
Earth that they shall not be moved
Hoping that humanity can fall
In love with the space in between
Their dreams and limbs
By carrying their dead close to
Their knees, kneeling
At every call to prayer, wishing that
A mother’s home can be re-built
In the gap of her cries that
Firstborn, only sixteen
Whose forehead carried
The burden of his father’s sorrow
Blown to pieces like a puzzle
Will return in the form of hope
Moaning under the breath
Of a wounded city
That died long before my mother
Was born for me


*This poem was first published in Public Pool

Home Part 1

Home like a swarm of guntiino’s kneeling over
Cooking pots with mouthfuls of coriander
Children gathering close for canjeero flavoured kisses
The air thick with frankincense
Clouding tales of near-deaths and broken hearts
Sorrow tucked away in henna-stained fingernails

*guntiino = traditional Somali dress
*canjeero = Somali pancakes

Being Black part 1

My skin tone takes 3 sessions on the sunbed to achieve

It’s hard to perfect the darkness surrounding my elbows and

Between my legs

There are tones that have never seen sunlight

And yet

I am a black woman, not medium brown or

Medium anything

Full-lipped and stretch-marked so far that even on your tippy toes

I cannot be reached



When it first spills

Scatters hurriedly to corners

Creases on your body

Clings to clothes

With the stench of extremities

Moulding itself around you

Splatters of human matter

Gather on cotton

Crimson brown and sour metallic

A kind of graffiti of hurt

Seven little sad photos

I have seven photos from my childhood, and once I saw myself in a video as a two-year-old in my auntie’s wedding. It was only a few second or so, a quick glimpse of littler me watched. Quite bizarre really, to watch yourself as a child when you’re a kid. In half or so of my photo collection, it is my second birthday and I am celebrated. Adorned. I bet I lapped it all up, who knew that that would be the last bomb-less year? I’m wearing a white dress (or was it ivory?) with matching ankle socks with tulle frill. Tulle. Isn’t it odd that only your childhood and the day you become a bride is the only time that tulle comes out of hiding? Both times meant to depict innocent joy, I suppose. The falling into the unknown before you get burned and everything around you is torched. It wasn’t made for this cruel world. In my current favourite photo, I am being held, comfortably, resting on my mother’s right hip, my white patent Mary Jane’s look bulky and glossy. This is how I will be described as an adult. Seven little sad photos lying on top of each other in an envelope tells a tale of being a refugee far better than I ever could.